Look, Jenji!

It's a 3-tier craft box. It has lots of storage slots and holds many many things. It's really really nice!

I call it my secret box, but don't tell anyone.

Oh crap, I just did.

The Denim Patch

I have a hole in my jeans. No. Strike that. It's not an actual hole yet, but it will be. Right now it's a frayed area the size of a pinky finger tip, located right near the zipper of my favorite pair of denim blues.

I purchased this particular pair from The Gap last year sometime. The Mexicans who made them included a bunch of really nice character-adding fade patterns on the thighs, and minor scuff marks on the cuffs. Pretty cool. The zipper area was, for good reason, left un-worn, un-scuffed, and in every other way untouched. Zippers need to zip, after all, and most people who wear pants with the intention of covering parts of their parts, appreciate when the mechanics built into the crotch area of said pants function as expected. I am one of those people.

After a solid year of use, I'm happy to report that the zipper on this particular pair of Gap jeans is working flawlessly. The fabric area near the flap where the zipper is attached, however, is not. What began as a tiny fade mark caused by fabric being stressed in some way (no, not in THAT way) has graduated to a full-on scuff mark with visibly broken threads and a sign that reads "Coming Soon: A New Entrance to Neverland."

Since I would like to continuing wearing these jeans to places that typically do not encourage full-frontal exposure of the undapants kind, I decided to embark down a path of previously unchartered territory in the Land of Bubbleboy.

Denim repair.

After purchasing a small assortment of iron-on type, self-adhesive denim patches from the fabric store, I read the instructions carefully and mentally prepared for what was to come.

• Step 1: Wash garment before applying patch. check
• Step 2: Cut swatch of denim patch material slightly larger than area to be covered. check
• Step 3: Set iron temperature to "cotton setting" and preheat for 5 minutes. check
• Step 4: Using iron, warm fabric to be repaired before applying patch. check
• Step 5: Place patch material onto area to be repaired and press firmly with iron for 45 seconds. check
• Step 6: Remove iron and allow fabric to cool. check
• Step 7: Check that patch is secure and repeat step 5 if necessary.
  

A slight tug at the patch tore the sucker right off, so I repeated step 5 as directed. Same result. Three times.

Fahk.

Then I realized that the glue on the patch had successfully transferred to my jeans, but no amount of additional heat was causing the patch to fuse into the denim fibers. So much for that idea. Ah well. No big deal. I'll just use the remaining denim fabric patches in the set I purchased to --- um. Ummm.

Oh right. Denim fabric patches are only good for one thing: FIXING HOLES IN DENIM!

Scientific geniuses have put a man on the moon and landed a robot on Mars. They built the internets, providing a way for everyone with a computer or cell phone to access maps and the weather and information about puppies and burkas and puppies wearing burkas and a million other things, any time they damn well please. They gave us Oreos without fat and cars powered by water. They can clone sheep and grow human ears from scratch in a petri dish. It's impossible to go about one's day without bumping into some life-altering product, invented by some scientific genius for the sole purpose of improving our quality of life.

Pasteurized milk. Microwave ovens. The polio vaccine. Listerine that doesn't burn one's tongue. Important examples of scientific discovery, all. And they actually work as advertised.

Now get crackin' on the new-and-improved denim patch kit, Mr. or Ms. Science, before I have to resort to wearing a crotch burka instead.

It's not a good look, I tell you. And it has become quite the problematic bulls eye target for feral dogs in the neighborhood. I don't enjoy running when it's humid outside and I'm almost out of Snausages, so get the lead out!

Breakfast Courtesy of Don Pedro

The sticker on the organically-grown banana that I just ate instructed me to "visit our farm at doleorganic.com - FARM 776."

So I did. This is what I learned.

DOLE PRODUCER CODE: 776
Farm Name: Don Pedro Farm

In the heart of La Guajira desert with a great view of the snowed peaks of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Dole Colombia operates a farm called Don Pedro. This farm has over 310 hectares of organic bananas and was established in 2005. This farm is currently certified under EU and NOP organic rules, ISO 14000 and SA 8000. Don Pedro promises to be one of the best producing organic banana farms in Latin America.

It goes on to say that in January 2007, the local Government Authorities from Riohacha, La Guajira, awarded Don Pedro Farm for its contribution to the economic and social development of the region. This is followed by a link to a nice story about the woman in the tan shirt pictured above.

And to think that all I had originally set out to accomplish by eating a banana this morning was increase my potassium level a tad.

I wonder what Gueldis Elit Deluque Jimenez is doing right now. Hopefully she's not listening to her son Eduardo whine about wanting to see Shrek The Third.

Gueldis, if you're reading this blog on the WiFi at Don Pedro, tell Eduardo that Jenji said the film really isn't that good. There are many other reviews that support her opinion. And you all should definitely wait and rent it on video, or wait until it loops ad nauseam on TBS, or not see it at all. Seriously, it's two hours you'll never have back. Tell him to watch old Warner Bros. Looney Toons or Jim Henson Muppet Show reruns instead. Now THOSE productions had original ideas with story narratives and comedy that didn't rely solely on cliched pop culture references and celebrity voice-overs.

And thank you for taking such good care of my banana.

There they are.

Pollen spores. Magnified by 500 times. Look at their thorny, spiny, spiky-ness. It's no wonder my head feels like someone stuffed it full of thumb tacks and the glass shards from Whitney's broken crack pipe.

Fahk.

Thump Thump Mmmmmm Bump Bump

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Every day, the entire front facade of Chez Bubbleboy vibrates from a mess of ultra-low frequency, subwoofer-born musical miscalculations.

Doooooom thump. Doooooom bump.

It's the almost only negative aspect of living on a well-traveled city road, and near an intersection with a traffic light. With popular ethnic eateries nearby and plenty of patio bars to impress, veritable convoys of slow-moving cruisers snake their way down this thoroughfare on a daily basis. Most of these vehicles are perfectly harmless, merely carrying passengers from A to B. If I wasn't looking out of the window when these particularly harmless vehicles drove past, I'd have no idea they were even in the neighborhood.

The same cannot be said of the small percentage of vehicles that make their presence blatently well known from blocks away.

Thump thump mmmmmmmmmm. Bump-bump-bump doooooooooooooom.

These idiots (I really tried to wordsmith a more eloquent description, but "idiot" is just too perfect to pass up in this case) and their do-it-yourself, trunk-mounted bass thumpers, disrupt the tranquility of my bubble, sporadically, each and every day. At certain times, the parade of noise pollution foolishness is quite pervasive. This is especially true when the traffic flow has to linger at the stop light.

Doooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump doooooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

The sound waves permeate every insulating wood, steel and glass comfort and sanity barrier between me and the street below. I hear and feel every last amplified decible of low frequency rumble, but don't really hear any actual music.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

And there's the rub. I like music. I can appreciate many forms of musical expression. I can do without most rap, country or excessively metal or Top-40 crap, but in controlled moderation, I can honestly endure most musical genres for at least a short time without feeling as though my head is going to explode, or that the enamel is going to shake from my teeth.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump. Bump-bump-bump-bump.

But when I've retired to the bubble---to my sanctuary of convoluted and carefully contrived comfort---I do not desire to, nor should I have to, endure what I have not, myself, initiated. And I especially do not want to experience sensory distractions from the very activities that I have decided to embark upon. With windows and doors closed, and living behind a curtain of heavy, 100 year-old wood timbers, modern fiberglass insulation, brick and mortar, I should be able to recline in a comfortable chair and write, read, watch something on the tube at a reasonable volume, or just glow at the prospect of doing any one of these well-earned paths of self-fulfillment in the near future.

Thump thump. Mmmmmmmmm. Thump thump.

At certain times of the day it is impossible for me to do any of these things without first acknowledging the existence of the idiots and their vibrating everythings. I don't want to think about them. This is ME time, dammit. But no. It's impossible to ignore the vibrating everythings. I assume it is music they are playing. I can sort of detect a rhythmic beat of some kind. There's definitely a pattern, anyway.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Based on what I can hear, and assuming it is indeed music at the root of these low-pitched drones and thumps, it is safe to say the following:
I HATE THIS FUCKING MUSIC!

Seriously. Why do these idiots think that creating such a negative experience for innocent bubbleboy bystanders is a wise path to choose in life? Don't they know that if I didn't detest physical violence in all forms, I would probably pop a lead cap in their ass? Maybe that's what drive-by shootings are really all about. And who the hell is looking at their four-wheeled fortresses of frequency-mottled bassdom and proclaiming, "My goodness. Now THERE is a person who is truly giving back to society in a meaningful way. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU'VE DONE, MISTER BASS-THUMPING MAN! We appreciate you!"

Okay. Maybe some folks say that, but I'm going to guess its a small minority.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

I'm not going to delve into how these loud disruptions may even impact the safety of police and emergency responders who rely on the ability of other drivers to actually HEAR the sirens and move their rolling buckets of thumping metal out of the street or intersection to prevent collisions. If my entire wall vibrates from a hundred feet away, there is no way the idiot driving the car with the sound system that's producing these vibrations can hear anything besides doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Or maybe they can.

Maybe I'm just more of a mutant than I already think I am. Maybe I'm just incapable of experiencing their music as anything but a wall of sonic frustration. Maybe I should flag one of these folks down and hitch a ride around the block so I could experience the fruits of their electronically-amplified labor first hand. Maybe I've got it all wrong.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Nope. I don't have it wrong. I also don't have an easy solution to my problem that doesn't involve a heavy duty, futuristic laser beam mounted on my bubbleporch (which, for anyone who knows where I actually live, would be a slightly inappropriate visual---especially during a shindig) that would automatically neutralize every trunk-mounted, vibration-causing sub-woofer rolling by with one zap.

The only solution I have found, thus far, is to add this little "mentally cleansing" diatribe to the blog here, and force myself to STOP bolting to the window each time an idiot drives by. Sure it momentarily feels good to get a visual lock on the would-be target, but without the porch-mounted laser beam, I'm just another kook yelling obscenities from his second-floor window.

At least I don't wear pants hiked up above my navel, have excessive amounts of ear hair, or smell like farina.

I'm far too entrenched in my manicuring rituals to fully embrace that cliché.

Attack of the Aqua Net

In my many years of living with a hyper-sensitive sniffer (that's my nose, btw), I've amassed an impressive mental catalog of various odors. When I encounter a new one, I do my best to quickly locate its origin and categorize its discomfort-causing level of putrescence for future avoidance. Then I move away from the odor's epicenter, sometimes holding my breath, sometimes just walking briskly, before my sniffer becomes overwhelmed and a headache or some sort of unattractive respiratory response ensues.

And then there was the time when I ran like a girl away from the candle-laden gift aisle at Bed, Bath & Beyond, eyes watering, holding my breath all the way to the back of the store. I did not inhale again until I was near the giant wall of kitchen and dining cutlery. I'm not allergic to those.

It was not a proud moment for me and I assure you that I don't normally run like a girl. But I was carrying one of those plastic shopping baskets in one hand, and it had a few breakable picture frames in it, and because of that I had to run with my arm sort of straight down on one side. I implore anyone to devise a method of running with one arm straight at one's side, and the other bending naturally at the elbow, that does not result in a stereotypically effeminate gait.

I find it far simpler to just log these many instances in my noggin and to avoid repeating similar activities in the future. The best way for me to do that is to keep my hyper-sensitive sniffer from discovering offensive odors in the first place. So, I file the smells and their level of affect into my bubbleboy brain, along with a mental location shot of where it came from. This coping method has served me well thus far in life. I haven't walked near the candle aisle at Bed, Bath & Beyond without taking a deep breath since, and certainly wouldn't think about lingering in similar areas of other stores without donning proper SCUBA gear and mosquito netting. [I'm not allergic to mosquitoes. I just hate the high-pitched sound their wings make when they try to fly into my ears. Naturally, I also despise the incessant ringing in those same ears that begins the moment I spastically smack myself in the side of the head in a lame attempt at shooing the little winged bastards.]

When following a car down the road, I remember to observe the condition of that car's rear bumper and tailpipe. If the exhaust is smokey in any way, or if the bumper looks as though its caked in coal dust, then past experience dictates that I should close off my car's air vents as a logical smell-avoidance precaution.

If I happen to be walking out a doorway and the person walking in the same door from outside has just exhaled the final puff of smoke from their cigarette break, I'll take a deep breath and hold it until I'm far enough away from the area of latent nicotine smog.

My smell-avoidance technique is effective 99 percent of the time.

The other one-percent is being held against its will inside the can of Aqua Net hair spray that is applied liberally to my co-worker's eighties-retro coiffure. The pungent chemical smell of this shit permeates every cubic inch of clean air to be found near the entrance to our office suite area where she sits. Necessity deems that I walk through this very area in order to reach my own desk each day.

Sometimes holding my breath works well.

Sometimes she walks into my office to ask a question or invade one of the file cabinets.

Sometimes I don't hear her coming and fail to shut down my odor receptors in time.

I'm convinced that this particular can of Aqua Net hair spray is the spawn of satan.

On Sunday, June 2, 2007, Jenji inquired:

Bubbleboy.
I'm curious as to the pollen count for those of us who spend most of our Saturday ass deep in a bee bush...
I'm just curious.


Dear Jenji,

Bee bushes, in their excessively-trimmed (and possibly stunted) Rolloff-like form, have been known to be, surprisingly, pollen-free.

Following yesterday's close encounter of the bushy kind, I can concur with most certainty that the above statement is true. I found the bush, with its dwarfish twigs and leaf-challenged stature, to be decidedly free of any and all allergens or irritants.

Thanks for your question. I look forward to watching your bush grow and prosper in the weeks to come!

Bubbleboy

Too much info. Yet I can't look away.

THE POLLEN FORECAST FOR YOUR AREA IS VERY HIGH...[more details]

That is the message that greets me most mornings during spring and summer. It's displayed at the top of my customized Weather.com page like a beacon of misery for my sinuses.

I check this website every morning before leaving the bubble. It helps me decide what clothing to put on my body. It helps me prepare for things I may encounter later in the day (bring a jacket just in case, Chet). It either reinforces or completely rejects what the chubby TV weather guy told me was going to happen the night before --- and that makes me giggle like a prepubescent school girl all hopped up on Pop Rocks.

But most of all, Weather.com turns my many sinuses against me, which makes me utterly miserable. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Take this morning, for example. Weather.com reports that the current temperature is 77 degrees and humidity is only 52 percent. The sun is shining and, for all intents and purposes, it is shaping up to be an almost perfect weather day.

"Not so fast, Bubbleboy," the bold text at the top of the page seems to shout. "Just look at that pollen count!"

My pending joy turns to angst as my sinuses quickly don the heavy armor they deem necessary to ward off pending attacks from billions of microscopic pollen spores that will, undoubtedly, bombard my head the moment I step outside. This is the same armor that makes my head weigh 300 pounds during most of spring and summer each year. It also causes my neck to bend towards the ground when I walk --- like a dork looking for coins on the beach.

I'm shocked I don't have a dowager's hump already.

So why don't I just change my customized weather.com settings to hide the tension-brewing pollen warnings, you ask?

I could. But then I would feel so unprepared each day when leaving the house. And my sinuses would be naked, like standing in the middle of Baghdad wearing only undapants and a "I love Bush" t-shirt.

Sure it feels like I have a full-size Sherman tank jammed up in my head. But in the world of Bubbleboy, that's the way it needs to be. If I give up, then the pollen wins.

Fuckin' pollen.